


QUEEN AND COUNTRY

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Episode Related, Other, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:17:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post <i>Where the Jungle Ends</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	QUEEN AND COUNTRY

**Author's Note:**

> Because no one had seen the episode _Klansmen_ when this story was first written, in 1984, I had no idea Bodie was supposed to be a racist and assumed the girl he said he had loved ( _Where the Jungle Ends_ ) was African.
> 
> The poor quality of the video tapes we _did_ have meant we assumed Bodie had a scar down one shoulder blade, rather than just muscle!
> 
>  
> 
> As a good half of my original copy of the story was turned into pulp a lot of this rewrite was down to guesswork.

STEPPING STONES series

 

Post _Where the Jungle Ends_

 

 

Dismissed by a testy Cowley, who had sunk to the ground cradling his injured arm, Doyle came to a halt some yards away, staring down the sharp incline as his less-than-immaculate partner staggered towards him, a victorious beam visible through the gore.

"You enjoyed that, I can tell." While Doyle flicked a finger and thumb in the direction of Krivas' limp and equally bloody figure, his attention was fixed on Bodie. Cowley might have decided to ignore Bodie's lapse into homicidal mania but he wasn't predisposed to be so understanding. Bodie had been poised to kill - and to enjoy the killing. The ashes of that bloodlust were still smouldering. Doyle was in no mood to ask what had stopped Bodie from taking that final step, the fact that something had was all that had kept him here.

"Was I too obvious?" Bodie tucked what remained of his shirt under his ripped waistband. Ignoring the hand extended to him, he achieved equal footing under his own steam.

Ruffled by Bodie's self-satisfied air, Doyle's expression of contempt deepened. "Depends what you call obvious. That little display was unsubtle by most people's standards."

"You don't like it, you know what you can do," dismissed Bodie. Unconvinced that the carnage was over, he continued to scan the innocuous heath land, relaxing only when he saw the first patrol car lurch over the horizon and Cowley limp off to meet it. "Ah, the Seventh Cavalry - late as usual."

"Early enough to clean up after us," Doyle said, before the dam burst. "What the hell were you playing at, going in like some one man army? You want to play those kind of games, you find yourself another partner!"

In no mood for moral guidance, least of all from Doyle, Bodie spared him a contemptuous glance. "Don't judge until you know what it's all about. Mind, why should that stop you, it never has yet. Judge and jury, that's your style, isn't it? And if the action accords with the Doyle Code of Ethics it's pass _friend_."

Eyebrows raised in hauteur, Doyle tried to outstare him. "Trying to beat someone to death with your bare hands doesn't look too complicated from where I'm standing. I've helped put away enough nutters to know one when I meet him. In case you've forgotten, we aren't here to settle old scores."

Bodie gave a crack of humourless laughter. "Oh, I love it! Not so fucking righteous. Or didn't your run-in with your favourite supplier count? Get moral dispensation for him, did you?"

The memory had become no more palatable with the passage of time. It set the limits on Doyle's temper. "At least I knew when to stop," he retorted. "You had the drop on Krivas but was that enough for you? Was it hell! If you need those kind of kicks you're sicker than I thought!"

Bodie's eyes flickered at that but he said nothing, his expression giving nothing away as he subjected Doyle to a lengthy assessment. When he smiled, his teeth looked white against his discoloured face.

"You know what's got up your nose most about this - for all the pious crap you've been spouting? You see, if I'm crazy, what does that make you, eh? We weren't teamed at random. If you're my keeper, I'm yours."

As he stared into the bloodied face opposite his own Doyle had no comeback, denials frozen in his throat as he admitted what had shaken him most. For a split second, watching Bodie, his face stamped with the savage joy of the kill, he had seen himself: the unacceptable face of Ray Doyle. From the glint in that swelling blue eye Bodie knew it too, he was nobody's fool. Today had forced Doyle to acknowledge dark complexities normally only hinted at. He'd assumed he was a good judge of character but today had demonstrated he didn't have a clue what went on behind the affable mask Bodie presented to the world.

"That probably sums us up quite well. Though it helps to know what you're guarding Queen and country from," he said, when he trusted his temper.

Bodie shrugged, knowing he would have his work cut out to fend off Doyle's insatiable curiosity. He began a fruitless search for a handkerchief, the stickiness of the blood that had been trickling from his nose a minor annoyance that his hand had failed to stem.

Already the tension between them was easing, residual violence from events of the day draining away. The impasse was broken by Cowley's dry-voiced reminder of his presence and the arrival of a cavalcade of police vehicles, including Forensics, a mortuary van and an ambulance, to which Krivas, safely cuffed, was escorted. Cowley gave Doyle an extensive list of instructions before his disapproving gaze settled on Bodie.

"I'll take your report, minus embroidery, in comfort. And find yourself a handkerchief, I don't want you bleeding over the upholstery. Och, take this," Cowley added impatiently, offering up his own immaculate handkerchief. "My car," he prompted, as it lurched towards them over the uneven terrain.

"Fraser's car," murmured Doyle.

Cowley swung around.

While Doyle's pace looked deceptively slow, his was undoubtedly a retreat.

Cowley fixed the other half of this most troublesome unit with a malevolent eye. "Let's get started," he said, waving Fraser out of the driving seat and Bodie into the back, next to himself.

oOo

His tasks completed before Bodie had finished his debriefing, Doyle made himself comfortable behind the driving wheel, ignoring the drift of Bodie's voice with the ease of long practice. Idly watching the activity he had set in motion, he propped his arm on the edge of the open car window, waiting for the last of the adrenalin fizzing through his system to calm.

As the sound of angry voices drifted over to him Doyle was prepared to concede that Fraser had an unenviable task. The local coppers weren't going to take kindly to having Krivas stolen from under their noses - not after he’d topped two of their own. Poor bastards, dead before they knew themselves to be under threat. Pitted against the merciless expertise of Krivas' man they hadn't stood a chance.

He absently watched Forensics busy around the corpses. It was a lovely day, the sun shining and birds singing in a nearby clump of gorse. They'd probably been singing throughout the gun-fight; he’d been too busy staying alive to notice. He smothered the fragmented memories of the day: the sun hot on his back; the exhilaration of the chase; the lingering stink of sweat and cordite; petrol from the abandoned bikes.

With any luck Deborah would be off-duty tonight. He'd try to book a table at Nico's, have a whirl around the dance floor and home to bed. Lost in a hazy, anticipatory glow, Doyle was slow to react to the spur of Cowley's voice from the back seat until it was reinforced with an impatient prod.

"Sir?"

Unimpressed by the alert tone, Cowley gave him a sour look and offered the tart reminder that he wanted to reach London at his own rather than Doyle's convenience.

"And I'll want an explanation for your excess of enthusiasm later, 3.7," he added, his pompous tone telling Bodie he was in disgrace, in case there should still be any doubt.

Bodie gave a lush sniff, then winced when his bruised nose protested.

"We've a busy day ahead of us before we can tackle Sinclair," continued Cowley, ignoring the uncouth interruption. "Bodie, clean yourself up and then take Wilson's interrogation. Doyle, you'll take Krivas, when the hospital has finished with him."

"The hell he will!" Bodie sat bolt upright.

"What's wrong," asked Doyle, as he drove over the rutted heath-land, "afraid that I'll succeed where you failed?"

"Krivas has plenty he could tell us but he won't. He's made fools of better men than you."

"Just because you couldn't handle him doesn't mean I - "

"That's enough," snapped Cowley. "This isn't a competition and I shouldn't have to remind either of you of the fact. If you can't contain your adolescent feelings of rivalry until you're off-duty you'll find yourselves off the A Squad. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Cowley turned his attention to the passing scenery, one hand unobtrusively cupping the elbow of his injured arm. He would have to make time to get it seen to, which was a damned nuisance while they were so busy.

From information coming in from Interpol it was clear Krivas lived his life on the fringes of the shadowy world of international terrorism, rather than the quasi-military mercenary community. He would have some interesting contacts. More than that, they needed to know why Krivas had decided to make Britain his centre of operations and Sinclair his paymaster. Where Krivas led others might follow and they needed to be ready for them. Krivas knew no national, political or religious affiliation, which made him a dangerous player in the power game. However, this recent sortie suggested he might have lost his edge: that flamboyant broadcasting of his presence; the overkill when attacking the army base; allowing one of his men to slip away to his lassie; not to mention the tactical error of trying to live off the land - hardly practical in the over-crowded confines of south-east England. Doyle would do well to remind him of those errors unless... Had Krivas just been out to impress Sinclair? The theft of the plutonium would have paid well and Sinclair had the contacts to dispose of it. Had this ust been one last job before Krivas retired?

It was Doyle's task to find out, Cowley reminded himself. He was looking forward to seeing how Doyle handled the interrogation. While he had a talent for questioning old lags who knew the system, he had displayed little skill in the more subtle forms of interrogation - unlike Bodie. It was a skill Doyle needed to acquire - how to mould himself into whatever was needed to win the information they needed.

Krivas himself was of little importance now he had been stopped. His contacts were another matter. To learn about them Doyle would need all the background information they could get, some of which Bodie was in a position to provide. And provide it Bodie would, whether he liked it or not. It was time this pair realised they weren't being paid to place personal considerations above the demands of the job. Cowley tried to ignore the growing discomfort in his shoulder and turned to Bodie.

"You'll brief Doyle on everything you know about Krivas. Every detail, no matter how trivial it might seem to you. Clear?"

"As crystal. Sir."

Cowley gave Doyle's smug expression little time to mature. "Doyle, why do you suppose you've been given the job - apart from the fact I've more important matters with which to concern myself, and that my best agents are occupied elsewhere?"

It was at that point Bodie decided he could leave it to Cowley to deflate Doyle's ego.

"Hobson's Choice, by the sounds of it. Especially as Bodie’s emotionally involved," added Doyle snidely.

"Hobson's Choice it is," said Cowley.

Already regretting that dig, Doyle concentrated on his driving. It could be worse, he thought philosophically. Half an hour in Records, an hour pumping Bodie and then off home to bed with Deb. Grim reality slowly clouded that rosy vision. Getting anything out of Bodie was about as likely as a pay rise at the moment, demanding more patience than he had ever possessed. He needed to cultivate some. He wasn't about to be beaten, least of all by some half-baked generalissimo. But how to get Krivas to talk? A hard man, he would have heard and seen it all before - from experts. And he was good. Good enough to command Bodie's caution at any rate, and that said it all.

Unbidden came the memory of his partner's muted voice: _I loved her...really loved her_.

Bodie had been uncharacteristically forthcoming. He might even have meant it, in which case... Doyle frowned. There was no love lost between Bodie and Krivas. Hardly surprising if Krivas had killed Bodie's bird, but while that explained Bodie's side of things it didn't begin to explain Krivas' attitude. He hated Bodie's guts, which was odd because even Bodie couldn't have been much of a challenge to Krivas' authority at the age of what, eighteen, twenty at most? Krivas had at least ten years on him and would have been well-entrenched, experienced in the ways of command and welfare. A raw recruit like Bodie shouldn't have offered any threat to that kind of expertise.

Oh yeah, there was a lot he needed to know before he started questioning Krivas. And if in the process he got something on Bodie...

Full of ignoble purpose, Doyle broke the silence which had fallen. "About Krivas, he takes himself seriously, doesn't he?"

"Very," said Bodie. He expanded on the theme only when Cowley gave an irritable snort. "He's got absolutely no sense of humour either. I once saw him shoot a bloke for playing a practical joke on him - in the kneecap."

"Nasty."

"Ginger was lucky. He knew better. Krivas was hot on unquestioning obedience. Trouble was, some of his commands were on the dicey side."

"Who for?"

"Oh, everyone. He was very democratic in that respect. His idea of 'an acceptable risk' makes our revered leader look benign."

Contenting himself with giving Bodie a speaking look, Cowley remained silent, aware that he was listening to a breach being patched over.

"Has he got a screw loose? Krivas, I mean," said Doyle, glancing in the driving mirror in time to see Bodie's faint grin of acknowledgement.

"You tell me. He seemed sane enough. I worked with him on my first tour of duty. He was on the move after that."

"With you behind him?"

"As fast as I could go," Bodie confirmed. "He was a busy lad. I heard a lot of stories about him, but then he'd take any job - if the money was right. He was good. I don't know if he's lost his edge. I might be able to tell you more after I've had a chat with Tub." He sighed. "Look, this is a waste of time. All my information's at least nine years out of date. There are too many gaps."

"So we'll fill in as many as we can," said Doyle absently, his attention divided between the road and Krivas' shadowy past. "He sounds a joyless bastard. Am I right in think he's been used to dealing with the top brass?"

"Nothing but," said Bodie, searching for repressed memories and the gossip exchanged around the camp fires. "He thought of himself as an old style soldier of fortune, his hand swaying the destiny of men. He had a fair old sway with an Ingram in his hand."

"The power behind some tin-pot throne, d'you mean?"

"Don't knock it. It might even have been true at some point. He certainly had some influential contacts in South Africa."

"Including BOSS?" asked Cowley sharply.

"So rumour had it, sir. He was pretty good at playing one side off against the other and he's far from stupid."

"After you've talked to Wilson you'll do some digging," Cowley commanded. "If BOSS had anything to do with his arrival in Britain I want to know about it."

Doyle had been digesting what they had been told. "Skeletons lying around, eh? Is our Enrico as bright as he thinks he is?"

"Close. But only while he holds onto his temper. Signs are that his fuse has got shorter over the years. Bad mistake for a leader that," Bodie added pointedly, but Cowley seemed not to have heard him.

"Worse than you, is he? No, straight up," Doyle added quickly, as he caught sight of Bodie's expression in the driving mirror.

"Considerably," said Bodie, his voice ultra dry.

"I'll know to go careful then. It's a pity he's the one bloke we can't get you to work your Mr Smooth routine on," said Doyle with genuine regret, prepared now to give credit where it was due.

"What's stopping us?"

"Come off it, mate. It wouldn't work and you know it. You _are_ too involved."

Because he could sense the difference in Doyle's manner, Bodie reluctantly conceded the point. "I suppose. So how are you going to handle him?" Despite himself there was an edge of sarcasm to the question.

Doyle ignored it. "I'm not sure yet but it occurred to me that one uninterested ex-DC wouldn't impress the hell out of him."

"But he won't know you were... Look, he's an old hand at all the games there are," Bodie warned.

"And I'm not. I know. I'm not planning anything flash, just to get him talking. It doesn't matter about what. It would help to know everything you know about him - and I do mean everything."

What Bodie could see of Doyle's face wore an expression which experience had taught him to mistrust. With Cowley their silent audience he was wary of questioning Doyle further. He didn't want Doyle rummaging around in his past, not least because he knew what Doyle was like when he got his teeth into a problem. He gave a non-committal grunt of what could be taken for agreement.

"Right," said Doyle, satisfied he had cleared the worst hurdle. "Are you in any hurry for what I can get out of Krivas, sir?"

"Why?" asked Cowley, instantly suspecting the worst.

All business now, Doyle didn't notice. "Because I think my only chance of cracking him lies in getting him off-balance. There’s no point giving him an over-inflated idea of his own importance. I could make it clear I'm only baby-sitting him because I'm in the dog-house for being an incompetent twit. Then I take it from there. Just Krivas, with no option but to sit and listen to me talking for hours and hours on end. I can blind him with details of my brilliant career and future prospects. He might start talking in self-defence. Boredom can do funny things to a man."

"That's true," said Bodie with feeling.

Cowley gave him a repressive glare while mentally juggling forthcoming assignments and duty lists. As luck would have it they were not too busy - now they had put a stop to Krivas' plans - and it would be a good week before Bodie was fit to be seen out on the streets. He had little wish to employ either of them on solo work - there was a danger they might enjoy it too much.

Despite their success to date no one but himself seemed to place much faith in the viability of Bodie and Doyle as a long-term partnership. At times he tended to agree with his experts, but silently. He had promised himself a year before he gave up on the idea; they were worth the time and energy he was spending on them. Individually they were good, united they could be the best team in the country.

"We'll see what progress, if any, you've made by Monday. You two are of more use to me out on the streets." The idea Doyle had suggested did not fit his usual style, nor was it an approach he would have used himself. There again, if he thought he had a better chance of success he wouldn't have given Krivas' interrogation to Doyle. "You'll want to use the basement, I suppose?"

"It seems a bit predictable," said Doyle. "Bodie?"

"He'll have known far worse than that."

"Then what would you suggest in lieu of rubber hoses?" asked Cowley dryly.

"How about the rabbit hutch?" suggested Doyle. "That room wouldn't intimidate my granny and the security's easy enough to arrange without making it obvious. It couldn't hurt to bring him in via the basement though, let him know he isn't worth the bother."

"Until he proves otherwise," Bodie pointed out.

"The state you left him in, he won't be up to much. And while it's only another pinprick, with his ego every little helps. It's worth a try," Doyle argued.

"Especially if he...talks." Cowley's voice tightened when the car sped over yet another hole in the surface of the road, which had suffered from the hard frosts of the previous winter.

Bodie gave the grey-tinged profile a sharp look of appraisal, caught Doyle's eyes in the driving mirror and received a nod of accord.

"Shouldn't you get that shoulder seen to, sir?" Bodie asked.

"When I need medical advice from you I'll be sure to ask for - " Only then did Cowley notice that the car had turned off the London road. "And where do you think you're taking us, Doyle?"

"Hospital," he replied succinctly, half his attention on the road directions being given to him by dispatch.

Cowley opened his mouth, preparing to annihilate such presumption.

"Well, you can't lecture us about adolescent behaviour and then be pig-headed enough to pretend that arm doesn't need attention," added Doyle, waiting fatalistically for the blow to fall.

"Besides, it'll be quicker to deal with it now than later," said Bodie pragmatically.

"I want the pair of you back in town doing something useful, not wasting time in some country hospital waiting for me."

"Oh, we won't be waiting," explained Doyle with unabated good humour. "Did I forget to mention it? I've arranged for Ruth to drive down to pick you up. She should be at the hospital within the next two hours. It won't take long to get that stitched up. You shouldn't need more than a local - nothing to worry about."

Bodie stared studiously out of the car window, his cheeks hollowing as he tried to disguise his grin. And Ray called _him_ a nutter.

"Thank you, 4.5, that's most reassuring. You seem to have thought of everything," said Cowley with delicate self-control.

"Think nothing of it, sir," said Doyle, lulled into a false sense of security.

Cowley spent an enjoyable five minutes telling Doyle, and for good measure Bodie, what he thought of their performance to date and future prospects within CI5. Unemployment was coming to seem both attractive and inevitable when he paused to take breath.

"We're here," said Doyle, unnecessarily, as he parked on a double yellow line and got out to open the door for Cowley.

"Casualty Department's to your left," added Bodie, unmoved by the scorching glare he received.

The slamming of the car door was the only acknowledgement Cowley gave before he stomped across the forecourt.

"I hope they forget to use an anaethestic on the stubborn old bastard," said Doyle, glaring after him.

"Now, now, 4.5. Mustn't get bitter and twisted."

"Give me one good reason. What's he think he's made of?"

"Titanium?" suggested Bodie.

"Yeah," said Doyle, vague because he had no idea what that was. Sliding behind the wheel he discovered Bodie had moved to the front passenger seat.

"I don't reckon our George loves us any more. I shouldn't bank on a pay rise in the foreseeable future."

Doyle snorted. "The last one would've blown away in a sparrow fart. What made you move?"

"Thought you looked lonely," said Bodie, projecting an unshakable calm for all he was worth. His eye throbbed, each bruise and scrape feeling raw, while ugly memories seethed beneath the surface. To distract himself he rummaged in the cluttered dashboard for something to eat.

"This is Fraser's car," Doyle reminded him. Put Bodie and a vulture after the same piece of meat and his money would be on Bodie every time.

"So?" Bodie was tossing various bits of paper onto the back seat.

"So there'll only be chewing gum at best."

"Eureka! Strewth, is this all?" Aggrieved, Bodie stared at the single stick. "I'm starving."

"You could always try buying something."

Bodie halved the greyish stick. "Here, give your fillings a treat." He moved his fingers just in time. "Cannibal."

"No fear of those fingers getting anywhere close to my mouth. Look at the state of them."

Bodie spread out his hands and eyed them thoughtfully. "I suppose I could use a shower."

"Till then, try cleaning up your face a bit," said Doyle. He hooked out a box of tissues from the well between the seats and dropped it in Bodie's lap. "You'll be frightening little old ladies more than usual with all that blood."

Bodie turned the driving mirror to inspect himself and grimaced. "You could have a point," he allowed, returning the mirror to its former position. He spat vigorously on a tissue and gingerly set about eradicating as many traces of the fight as he could. The tissues felt like sandpaper. "I certainly won't be launching any boats today."

"You could always try the Woolwich Ferry, they aren't in any position to be fussy. Give me that tissue, you're just making things worse," Doyle added impatiently.

When he spat on it, Bodie palmed him away. "Gerroff."

"You've reopened that cut over your eye."

"Then leave it alone."

"Are you sure you don't need a trip to Casualty yourself?" While the tone was casual, Doyle was visibly checking him over.

"Positive. Home, James or the way our luck's running we'll have to take Cowley back with us."

Doyle turned on the ignition. "There's a clean tee shirt in that bag you chucked in the back."

"You're good at sharing out other people's property, I've noticed that before."

"Just my natural generosity coming to the fore." Caught in a line of traffic waiting for the lights to change Doyle became aware of the attention Bodie was attracting. "We'll have someone stopping to dial 999. Change."

About to argue Bodie caught the eye of the woman driver next to him and took the line of least resistance. Opening the bag, he grimaced. "Ah, red. Just the thing to match my nose."

"I dunno why you're complaining. What colour do you call what's left of your shirt? I nearly posted a letter in you this morning. Stop being coy and get if off. You can't attract any more attention than we're getting right now."

"We're not all exibitionists," grumbled Bodie, who had strong views about public nudity - his own anyway.

He hauled off his ruined shirt and wriggled into Fraser's tee shirt, which being two sizes too small clung like a second skin. After seeing the state of his jacket Bodie checked the pockets and tossed both jacket and shirt onto the back seat.

He realised that he was going to have to do something about his clothes. This was the third suit he’d ruined in the line of duty and it was getting harder to push their replacements through expenses. Cords stood up to a lot of wear and tear while still looking good.

"Don't forget to clean this car up when we get back," instructed Doyle, negotiating the roundabout to take the sliproad to the London-bound motorway.

Engrossed in thought, Bodie grunted a token agreement and tried to find a position of comfort. The fight had been a mistake, like all his dealing with Krivas. There was nothing he could do that would repay the bastard for what he had done except kill him and Doyle had put a stop to that, the contempt in his voice as effective a stopper as a high-velocity bullet.

In retrospect Bodie was glad of it. Killing Krivas was too easy. Let the bastard rot at Her Majesty's pleasure. He might be a hard case but he would meet harder where he was going. Revenge was stictly for the movies. Nothing he could do would resurrect Adetola, or reduce his bitter sense of failure.

It was his fault she died. He had ignored her fears and left her in that flat, which only pride had enabled him to afford. Then he had swanned off on his second tour of duty, swaggering to hide how scared he was. There was nothing 'romantic' or 'heroic' about life as a mercenary, his experiences in East Germany and Jordan no preparation for war-torn Africa.

He had returned too late to save her and had hired himself out to whichever faction took him closer to Krivas. He had been within spitting distance of his quarry when anticipation had made him careless and he had been taken.

Old history, Bodie reminded himself, smothering the memory of that Congo jail. His shoulder hadn't given him any trouble in years and it had been months since he had dreamt about it. But while he carried the scar he couldn't forget. Not Krivas, his own sense of failure, or the senseless conflicts: Angola; South Africa and the Homelands; Biafra and, finally, the Congo. Left against right, right against left, the centre against both; black against black, white and every colour combination you cared to name. Wherever he had gone there had been death.

Africa? You could keep it.

What impulse had made him mention Adetola to Doyle - a plea for sympathy? He'd been wasting his time if that was the case. A master when it came to bleeding for the miseries and injustices of the world, Doyle could be singularly blind to the needs of the beggar starving at his feet. Bodie paused to wonder if that contradiction stemmed from rank insensitivity or simple hypocripsy and shrugged the thought aside. While Doyle's conscience might be accommodating at times, at least he had one. No surprise that he could be as full of contradictions as the next man.

Tired of introspective waffling, Bodie spat the flavourless gum out the car window, made himself more comfortable and studied his partner.

His window down, one bared forearm propped in the sun, Doyle looked deceptively relaxed as he drove them back to London. Only his eyes gave the pleasing picture the lie: clear and cold, they were busy assessing more than the road ahead and traffic conditions behind, flicking over cars and drivers alike, imprinting them on his memory.

Odd that Doyle couldn't understand his need to settle an old score because forgive and forget was not to the fore in the Doyle credo of life. Ray should have been an accountant the way he totted up favours and grievances. Not that you would think it to look at him now, basking in the sun, a half-smile deepening the crease down one cheek. Fatal to take him at face value when he looked like that.

Face value...

He'd been guilty of making that mistake with Doyle in the past. He should have learnt better by now.

Maybe that hadn't been such a bad idea of Cowley's to give Krivas to Doyle to interrogate. Krivas prided himself on his ability to select men, contemptuous of those he judged inferior to himself, which was approximately ninety nine point nine of the population. That arrogant blind spot had always been his Achilles Heel. If Doyle played on it...

"Ray, will you take some advice?"

Surprised at the use of his first name, Doyle spared him a glance. "About Krivas? All you can give me. You know him, I don't. But I intend to, before I'm done with him. And perhaps he'll be a bit wiser too. Let's get the bastard where it'll hurt the most - his pride."

Bodie blinked at the gesture of solidarity. What did it matter what motivated Doyle if the result broke Krivas, he reminded himself.

"Why not?" he said coolly.

"Now would be as good a time to start as any," added Doyle, at his most businesslike.

"What do you want to know?" asked Bodie, wary because he knew Doyle. Give him an inch and he would take the ground out from under your feet.

Prompted by pertinent questions, Bodie's sketchy account was fleshed out, half-forgotten, or deliberately repressed memories offered up, anything that might give Doyle the lever needed to open up Krivas and produce the pearl in the oyster.

Bodie could think of few better irritants than Ray Doyle.

oOo

His report made to a neatly stitched Cowley, his interrogation with Wilson still sour in his mind, Bodie went out into the almost deserted car park and groaned aloud when he saw a familiar figure perched on the bonnet of his car.

"Evening," offered Doyle, unpeturbed by Bodie's groan.

"I've told you all I know," protested Bodie. "There's nothing more, I'm squeezed dry."

Doyle swung his legs and stayed where he was.

It had, Bodie supposed wearily, been too much to hope that Doyle would take the hint.

"Look, all I want is a shower, a decent meal with a couple of drinks, and a long, long sleep," he whined.

"I thought you might," Doyle said cheerfully. "So to start the programme off on the right foot you've got yourself a chauffer. Me. Keys." He held out an expectant hand.

Bodie conducted a short internal debtate; accepting the fact he was in no condition to flatten the irritating sod, he fished out his car keys and tossed them over.

"Just mind the paintwork," he said, before he eased onto the passenger seat.

"I take it Wilson hadn't changed much then," said Doyle, as he drove off.

"Not a lot," said Bodie. Doyle already knew too much about his past. Enough was enough.

"I had a chance to listen in to your interrogation," said Doyle. "You did well with him. More patient than I expected. Seems to me you got all there was to get."

"And?"

"Wilson struck me as a shining example of the fact some blokes never learn."

"So?"

"So it's bloody depressing when you meet up with a bit of your past like that. I had it brought home to me when I ended up nicking a couple of blokes I'd knocked around with before I got some sense. Born losers, both of them. It made me realise, it could have been me if I hadn't got out from under."

"Lucky you," said Bodie, in no mood for the story of the poor-but-honest kid from the streets making good.

Unruffled, Doyle nodded. "That's what it amounts to, making your own luck. Making the break. The way you did."

"Yeah, and look where it got me."

"Least you were on the right side of the interrogation table."

"Big bloody deal."

"I'd have three drinks if I was you. Cheer you up."

"Drop dead."

There was an inimical pause.

"You don't say that lightly in this game," said Doyle at last, his voice and face devoid of expression.

Bodie stared through the windscreen. "No. Sorry," he added.

"You like Chinese?"

"Chinese what?" asked Bodie, distracted from his yawn by the non-sequitur.

"Well, I had food in mind. You don't look as if you could do justice to anything more challenging tonight."

"Yes, to both."

"That's all right then."

The car slowed, then stopped, Doyle halfway out the door before Bodie thought to ask where he was going.

"To buy us dinner. Chinese. One of the best takeaways in London, this is. You hungry?"

Bodie nodded, shook his head and shrugged.

"That's what I like to see, a man of instant decision," approved Doyle, rocking the car as he slammed the door shut. He disappeared through the open door of _The Jade Lagoon_.

Beyond caring how much this evening was going to cost him, Bodie's eyelids sank to a close. He was asleep within seconds.

Doyle's voice jolted him back to life, chilly evening air flooding the interior of the car.

"Come on, mate. Rise and shine. A shower, meal, short chat and a few hours sleep will make a new man of you," promised a disgustingly cheerful voice.

Bodie opened a bleary eye. "I quite liked the old man, thank you very much." Only then did he realise that Doyle had allowed him to sleep until they reached his - Doyle's - flat.

"There's always room for improvement. Come on, shift your arse. It's a sign of old age when you start dozing off like this." For all his ostensible lack of sympathy, Doyle waited patiently enough while Bodie hauled his aching body out of the car, his stiff upper lip only just remaining intact.

"You planning to feed the five thousand?" asked Bodie as he trailed after Doyle, belatedly noticing the crammed to capacity carrier bags Doyle was embracing.

"Just you and me. I'm hungry, even if you're not. Do you want that shower before or after you eat?"

Resigned to the fact that Doyle had steam-rollered his way into his evening, Bodie sank onto the sofa, pale with fatigue beneath his bruises. He displayed his first sign of life when, having set everything down on the coffee table, Doyle began to remove the lids from the various containers.

"After," Bodie decided, salivating. "You got a fork? I'm too hungry to piss around with chopsticks." His nostrils twitching, he revived enough to burn his tongue on a morsel of sweet and sour something. "It's hot," he mumbled, licking a sticky finger and thumb.

"Teach you not to wait, won't it," said Doyle, reappearing with full hands. "Forks, corkscrew, wine and glasses. Yeah, that's the lot. Get stuck in."

"What about plates?" said Bodie, his fork already poised.

"You fancy the idea of washing them up? No, that's what I thought," said Doyle, settling himself on the other side of the coffee table and picking up a fork. “Stop complaining, drink this and eat."

For once Bodie did as he was told, recovering under the reviving influence of good food, even better wine, and Doyle's undemanding company. To his surprise, the expected inquisition never materialised, the light, inconsequential conversation requiring no effort.

"That hit the spot," said Doyle eventually. He stirred himself to dispose of the empty containers and bags. A short time later he reappeared with coffee, a bottle of scotch and clean glasses.

"I'm surprised you don't make us use these again," said Bodie, gesturing to the glasses holding the dregs of wine.

"I would but it makes the scotch taste horrible." Doyle sank opposite Bodie, heeled off his trainers and put his socked feet on the coffee table before viewing Bodie with a tolerant eye.

Bodie had taken a real pasting today, in ways which had nothing to do with those spectacular bruises. Hardly surprising. There were people and events in his own life that he'd rather never reappeared. No reason to suppose Bodie was any different in that regard.

In fact he knew Bodie wasn't any different. Today had taught him that much. It was funny, romantic with a capital R wasn't something you expected from an ex-mercenary, yet how else did you explain away that chase across a continent to revenge a dead girlfriend? Bodie had claimed he'd loved her. He might even have meant it. It was hard to tell with Bodie.

"So when are you going to start work on Krivas?" asked Bodie, from where he was stretched full length on the sofa.

"As soon as he’s discharged from hospital. Probably around lunchtime tomorrow. I'll give him a chance to get settled in first, go in around five. It'll give me the chance to stock up on some sleep."

"You'll carry on straight through?"

Doyle shrugged. "Maybe. See how it goes."

Bodie took a sip of his scotch. "You're going to a lot of trouble over this. Whatever Cowley says, Krivas can't give us that much."

"Mmn."

"So why bother? You bucking for promotion?"

"Do I look like Lewis?" said Doyle, without heat.

Bodie eyed the dishevelled figure, lingering here and there. "Not a lot, no. So why are you going to all this trouble?"

Doyle rubbed his nose and leant forward to top up his cooling coffee with some scotch.

The delay alerted Bodie, who wasn't used to stalling tactics from his usually decisive partner. But, recognising Doyle's defensive expression, he knew better than to push.

"To prove I can do it, I suppose. That I've got the patience," said Doyle, goaded into speech by nothing more than Bodie's silence. "Besides, he's a cold bastard."

"Getting to know him, are you?"

Doyle looked up sharply but found none of the mockery he had expected to see. "For all the good it'll do me. I'm even starting to believe some of your stories about Africa," he said ironically, because Bodie never volunteered anything.

Bodie tensed. "I was a mercenary, just like the rest of them."

"'S not like you to claim to be average. I bet you were better than most of 'em, for all that you must've been wet behind the ears when you got out there."

"How d'you work that out?"

"You got out from under. Came back to what passes for civilisation. Ended up a sergeant in the SAS. I'm sorry about your girlfriend."

"Don't be." Bodie took another sip of scotch, knowing he couldn't afford to get drunk with Doyle in detective mode. "Occupational hazard in her line of work." It felt disloyal - and cheap - the moment he said it.

Doyle's gaze remained on Bodie's bowed head, recognising the sulky pout that came into play when Bodie knew he was in the wrong of it but wasn't about to apologise. "Maybe so, but who thinks of that when they're... What were you, eighteen?"

"Nineteen. Leave it, can't you. So who is all this effort for? Don't tell me you're out to impress Cowley?" Bodie made no attempt to hide his scepticism; Doyle was good enough not to have to bother.

Doyle fidgeted with his watch strap, then took a swig of his strongly laced coffee. "What is this, getting your revenge for all those questions Cowley forced you to answer earlier?"

"Maybe," said Bodie. If he didn't know better he'd say Doyle was embarrassed. You know better, he reminded himself.

"Yes, well, I don't deny I took advantage," conceded Doyle, draining his mug and setting it down with a small click. "Anyway, I owe you."

"What for?" said Bodie in blank surprise. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this.

"For seeing me through a few heavy moments. Not letting me top Mellors that time, for one thing," muttered Doyle. "I didn't even have your excuse of personal involvement."

He launched himself to his feet, flicked the stereo into life, then off again. "I suppose it's like you said," he added into the silence. "If you're my keeper, I'm yours."

Ray Doyle keeping tally, remembered Bodie wryly. Well, well...

"Then power to your elbow, my son," he said, idly tracking Doyle's passage around the room and wondering if Doyle ever switched it off. He seemed to thrive on attention, so probably not. "That wasn't a bad meal. How come you're not out with the luscious Deborah this evening?"

"Good question," said Doyle, greeting the change of subject with relief as he settled bonelessly back in his chair. "I wasn't sure how much of an evening I'd have free and I don't want to muck her around."

"Bit special, is she?" enquired Bodie, with a gleam of interest.

"Stop salivating, she's mine. And a gentleman never kisses and tells. Yeah, she is," Doyle added, with a lascivious little chuckle. "Well worth holding onto for a while. I've had to stand her up twice already. Bloody Cowley. He's cost me more birds..."

"I know what you mean, mate," said Bodie. The remainder of the evening passed comfortably as the level in the bottle of scotch slowly sank.

"I need to take a leak," said Doyle, uncoiling from where he sat.

Supple as some bloody ferret, thought Bodie with hazy appreciation.

"You want another coffee when I get back?" Doyle thought to add in the doorway.

"Nah, I'll be off in a minute."

"No rush," said Doyle easily.

He returned from the bathroom to see that Bodie had fallen asleep. "I dunno," he murmured tolerantly, "you can't take some people anywhere. Come on, Bodie. You can't sleep here."

The regular breathing continued undisturbed, that peculiar instinct for danger that they both shared at peace.

"I suppose it's a compliment really," Doyle told the furniture, resigned to the fact that Bodie would inevitably blame him when he woke up with cramp. The sofa wasn't fit for man or beast. Rest room gossip said Cowley choose the furnished flats for their lack of comfort - to ensure the troops would rather work than play. Quietly switching off all but the centre light, Doyle found a spare duvet, settled it over Bodie, and went to bed.

OOo

Doyle woke as the bed dipped, his Browning in his hand as he rolled over, still only half-awake.

"'S me!" said Bodie quickly. "Bleeding hell, Doyle. Has anyone ever mentioned that your bedroom technique could use a bit of work? And put that down before it goes off."

"Oh, bloody hell," sighed Doyle, cocking his gun and tucking it back in the holster slung over the headboard.

He flicked on the light, squinting as he stared from a blanket-laden Bodie, who was wearing only his socks and navy briefs, to the other half of his bed. "What d'you think you're doing? I nearly gave you a second navel."

"I fell off the settee. The floor's draughty."

"So go home," said his host, having peered at his watch. "The car's outside."

"'M over the limit," Bodie reminded him. He looked wistfully at the acres of empty bed. "And it's half-past three. And I hurt."

"Serves you right."

Bodie just stood there, shivering in the chilly air.

Doyle caved in under thirty seconds. "Come on then, get in. But if you snore, you're out on your ear."

"I've never had a complaint yet," said Bodie, brightening.

"Yeah, well I'm not one of your besotted birds. Reminds me, keep your hands, and everything else, to yourself."

"Try not to make me feel too welcome," begged Bodie, getting into bed with alacrity.

"Socks off," commanded Doyle.

"What?"

"I've got standards."

"You're insane," moaned Bodie, grimacing as he leant forward.

"Oh, for... Keep 'em on then."

"You could always take 'em off for me," said Bodie guilelessly.

"Don't push your luck," Doyle advised him, retrieving what he considered to be a fair share of the bedding. "Now shut up and go to sleep. Are you on early call?" he added with suspicion.

"Standby."

"Thank Cowley for that much."

Doyle clicked off the light and snuggled back under the covers, vaguely resentful of the inert warmth occupying what should have been Deb's place.

Serve him right if I forgot myself in the night, he thought, grinning.

One thought led to another.

A moment later Doyle clicked back on the light and leant over Bodie's shoulder so he could see his face. "You asleep?"

Bodie opened an irritable, bloodshot eye. "Fat chance."

"I want to ask you something, and I don't want you losing that temper of yours. You do, and your arse won't touch the floor till I bounce you out on the street, clear?"

With a huff of resignation Bodie rolled onto his back, disconcerted to find himself lying half under the not unpleasant warmth of Ray Doyle. "What do you want to know?" he asked with suspicion, resisting the impulse to hitch the bedclothes a little higher.

"It's about Krivas..."

"Why me, Lord?" asked Bodie pathetically, closing his eyes and mimicking snoring.

"One question."

"All right, let's have it," sighed Bodie, taking the line of least resistance.

It occurred to Doyle that this might have been easier if he had left the light off. He settled back against the pillows. "I can understand why you feel the way you do about Krivas," he began, choosing his words with care.

"I doubt it." Bodie opened his eyes to find Doyle looking everywhere but at him, and he had moved away, inches of bed-linen between them now.

"What I don't understand," said Doyle doggedly, ignroing the interruption, "is why he should hate you so much."

"Ah," said Bodie wisely, in danger of drifting back to sleep.

"From what I've seen and heard of his reaction to you... It occurred to me that maybe..." Doyle's voice trailed away.

Having hoped to get some sleep that night, Bodie ignored his aches and pain to loom over Doyle. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Doyle elbowed him away, but gently. "Does he fancy you?" he asked baldly, before he scrunched his eyes shut, as if that would somehow save him from the detonation that was about to take place.

When he could stand the silence no longer he opened his eyes to find Bodie was still staring at him, with nothing reassuring about him at all.

"You what?"

"You heard me. Lose your temper and you're out," Doyle reminded him.

"You've... You've got one hell of a... Where d'you get off...?" It was one for the rare occasions in Bodie's life when words failed him.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's take all that outrage as read, shall we? Does - did he?"

"Are you setting me up?"

"At this time of the morning. Get over yourself." Doyle's tone was scathing.

"Then is this some half-arsed proposition?"

Doyle's jaw sagged, before he recovered. "Look, mate, when I proposition someone, they aren't in any doubt about it. Though if this is your idea of a seduction technique maybe those stories you hear about mercs are true. And shift over to your own side of the bed," he added tartly, unintimidated by the banked rage coming his way.

Bodie shifted. "Why d'you want to know? Apart from the fact you're a nosy, salacious little scrote, that is?" The frost was gone from his voice.

His mind on Krivas, Doyle was staring into the middle distance, frowning. "Because it doesn't go with Krivas' own image of himself, for one thing. He doesn't strike me as a free thinker. Too hooked on image. Obviously full of macho crap. Which always makes me wonder," he added, his eyes flicking over the man beside him.

Bodie's mouth twitched.

He was rewarded with a grin. "Thing is, if Krivas _is_ susceptible, maybe I can use that to get him off-balance. Could he fancy me, d'you think?" From Doyle's matter-of-fact tone he could have been discussing the weather.

Bodie stared at the lamp-lit face, sensual even when blurred by fatigue, the cool, light eyes balanced by the tempting sensuality of that mouth. Add to that the best arse he'd ever noticed on a bloke, allied to a sexual confidence second to none...

"Think you'll know me again?" asked Doyle acidly.

"Just deciding whether I'll respect you in the morning. You so obviously not military, yet... Yeah, I reckon he could. Though I don't see..."

"I'll bear that in mind, give it a whirl, if need be. Night," Doyle added, already sliding under the bedding, until only the top of his head remained visible.

Bodie poked him in the back.

"This had better be good," said Doyle, re-emerging only with reluctance.

"Have you done this sort of thing before?"

Bodie could still see Doyle's slow grin long after the light had been clicked off. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that he might not know Ray Doyle quite as well as he had assumed.

 

OOo

"Oy, John! Can you spare a minute?"

On the point of going off-duty, Fraser turned, looking unenthusiastic when he saw who had stopped him. "Make it short, Doyle. I've got a date tonight."

"Lucky you, mate. It's about Krivas. Has he had the all-clear from the hospital yet?"

"Yep. Sally and Julia are bringing him in now. Contusions, abrasions, broken little finger, couple of ribs... Nothing serious, so you can bounce him around to your heart's content."

"Thanks," said Doyle dryly. Aware of something else, something unspoken, he added, "You don't reckon I'll be able to get anything from him?"

To give him credit, Fraser gave the question careful thought before he shrugged. "I dunno," he said honestly. "I wouldn't give good odds on the old man getting anything out of Krivas. He won't intimidate easily. How long has the Cow given you?"

"As long as it takes," said Doyle absently. "So they managed to get the girls in for Krivas..."

"Oh, yeah. And they're not at all happy with you," added Fraser, with a grin.

Doyle looked faintly uneasy. "You told 'em it was my idea?"

"You didn't think I was going to take all the credit, did you?"

"Thanks, pal. How did Krivas take to them?"

Fraser slipped on his jacket. "He didn't like it. In fact he liked them even less than he liked Jax. They had to take books in with them though, as they can't knit."

"I dunno what modern women are coming to," said Doyle sadly. "They're gonna make me pay for this, aren't they?"

"Probably for years," said Fraser.

"I didn't think Krivas would take to being guarded by women, if not for the same reason as he took against Jax. It would have made Sally and Susan all the keener, of course. Krivas doesn't give much away, does he."

"He makes Cowley look generous in comparison. Stolid. Not much imagination. Big ego. Can I go now? Only some of us have got lives."

"Must be nice," said Doyle absently. "Hang on a tick. Could Krivas go for Sally or Julia?"

"He'd take on anyone, mate."

"Not _that_ ," said Doyle, impatient with Fraser's inability to follow his train of thought the way Bodie could. "Could he fancy them?"

"Why should he be any different from the rest of us?"

Doyle's look of superiority met with a derisive snort. "Come off it," scoffed Fraser. "Quite apart from your obvious physical handicaps, you've just landed yourself at the bottom of their list. Chauvinist was the kindest thing they had to say about you when I passed on your message. As for Krivas, how should I know what turns him on?" His eyes narrowed as he finally took the question seriously. "Nah. He didn't eye them up like that. You know, automatically taking note."

"So who would say could be his type?"

"He's probably sexless."

"John..."

An evil grin lit Fraser's face. "Why, planning to sweep him off his feet, are you?"

"If all else fails, I'll think about it."

"You're serious!" Fraser realised.

Doyle raised his chin. "Want to make something of it?"

"Do I look suicidal?" Fraser's grin faded as he finally took their conversation seriously. "You could be onto something, Ray. Now I think about it, he checked Jax out, though I didn't put two and two together at the time. I reckon he likes 'em willowy, so you'll need to tone yourself down a bit. Less mean and moody, more...fluff." He gestured vaguely.

"I'll _fluff_ you. Thanks. Have a good evening."

"Bugger my evening. You don't seriously think I'm going to miss you vamping Krivas?"

"Depends if you're planning on having children at some point," said Doyle, in the same level voice.

With good survival instincts, Fraser knew when to call it a day. "You've got to admit..."

"Go home," said Doyle, with a faint grin. "Is there any chance you'll keep this chat to yourself for now?"

Fraser thought about it. "For the sake of my unborn children..."

"And a pint?"

"You're on. Good luck with him, mate. I reckon you'll need it."

"Me too," murmured Doyle, as he watched Fraser head down the corridor. _Fluff_... He'd just have time for a change of clothing before a quick trip to the hairdresser...

oOo

"How's it going?"

Bored out of his mind, Lucas tried to look attentive. "Nothing yet, sir." It was four a.m. and he was cream-crackered. Staring at Ray Doyle had never been one of his favourite pastimes.

"It's early days," said Cowley. He paused to glance through the one-way mirror. About to leave, he paused when he heard his companion's soft sigh.

"In case anyone's interested, that's what I'd like for Christmas," she murmured.

Diverted, Cowley and Lucas both turned to stare at her.

" _Krivas_?" said Lucas.

Susan gave him a look of pity, before returning her appreciative gaze to Doyle, who was sauntering around the interrogation room, deep in fictitious reminscences of his notable successes while a member of His Majesty's Constabulary.

"You're talking about _Doyle_?" said Lucas with disbelief, deciding he would never understand women.

"God forbid. No, just this packaging."

"Krivas is more my sort," said Lucas, able to see nothing in the wiry, dishevelled figure of Ray Doyle to excite any interest.

"I don't know what Ray's done to himself but whatever it is he should do it more often," said Susan.

"You can write him a testimonial in your own time," said Cowley. "If you've quite finished I should like to get home."

"Yes, sir." Unpeturbed, Susan allowed herself one last, lingering look, wishing she had a camera handy, although perhaps it was nothing more than the way Ray was moving?

Intrigued, Cowley moved to her side, concentrating now. Doyle's hair looked different. Softer. And more...auburn. The large framed spectacles he wore gave him a gentle look - a librarian maybe. Though his clothing didn't leave much to the imagination, Cowley mused, eying the brown velvet trousers and half-unfastened white lawn shirt, both of which fitted like a second skin. But that didn't explain the change in body language... 4.5 looked as if he'd be hard pressed to run across the road... Willowy, rather than sinewy.

A reluctant smile twitched Cowley's mouth. "He can be a clever lad at times. Though it's not one of the recommended techniques. Will it prove effective, do you think?"

"Krivas is listening to him, despite himself," pointed out Susan crisply.

"He doesn't take his eyes off Doyle either," said Cowley, wondering how long it had taken Doyle to get into trousers that tight. He hadn't appreciated that 4.5 was this skilled at subsuming his own character. That could come in useful.

"No, sir," agreed Susan demurely.

"Thank you, I think I can work out why for myself. Has Doyle got him talking at all?" Cowley turned back to Lucas, who was wondering if their tea had been spiked with anything because all he could see was Doyle ambling round the room, reminiscing about stuff so boring it would send most people to sleep.

"Krivas refused cigarettes but accepted the blanket and coffee. Nothing else. Not even a 'you'll never get me to talk'. No request for a solicitor, or anything else. Ray's been talking ever since. He'll be hoarse if he keeps on at this rate. He's one hell of a liar," Lucas added, with a trace of admiration.

"Keep that tape running. I think we may get something useful from Krivas after all. Susan?"

Resigned, Lucas stared through the mirror, his attention on Doyle now, wondering what he had missed.

oOo

Even staring at his linked hands Krivas was conscious of where Doyle stood with one foot propped on the rung of his chair. Doyle arched his spine before relaxing with a soft groan.

"D'you play crib?" he asked.

"What is 'crib'?" Krivas looked up, his eyes gritty with fatigue because he couldn't sleep on the cot provided because of the incessant chatter of the fool in front of him. Irritated with himself for responding, he fell silent, his swollen mouth compressed.

"Cribbage. Anything to pass the time. Well, if you can't play I'll just have to teach you. I'm not spending the next month sitting eyeball to eyeball with you in silence."

 _Silence_ , thought Krivas incredulously.

Doyle drew his chair up to the small table, and produced a battered pack of cards, his thin fingers deft and graceful as he cut the pack.

"Now, we need a pen and paper. For scoring," Doyle explained kindly. "It's not an easy game."

_But you would be, my friend..._

_Stay alert_ , Krivas reminded himself angrily. "This is a novel interrogation technique. Does it have much success amongst your old age pensioners?" he demanded. Despite himself, his eyes followed Doyle's hand as he unfastened yet another button of his lawn shirt, rubbing voluptuously as a minor irritation. He seemed totally without self-consciousness, like an animal.

"What's to interrogate?" said the rough-soft voice. "We've got you bang to rights. I would've thought an old lag like yourself would be more philosophical about it all. Still, you gave us Sinclair on a plate, so ta. And that's the reason we're wrapping you up in cotton wool, in case Sinclair has friends we don't know about. Don't worry. You'll be safe enough here. Now, can you play crib, or do I have to teach you?"

oOo

It drove McCabe, who had taken over the watch from his partner, to distraction watching Doyle cheat at the scoring. Impatient with Krivas for letting Doyle get away with it, it was a while before he appreciated just how distracted Krivas was, Doyle's dismissive attitude doing the rest.

He lit another cigarette and smiled to himself when Doyle slid in the first question, even as he displayed a hand worth twenty-four points.

oOo

Bodie paused on the threshold of the rest room, an unwilling grin replacing a certaintain grimness.

"You look terrible," he said.

Unshaved and puffy-eyed from lack of sleep, Doyle's glare would have incinerated a lesser man. "Sod off," he suggested hoarsely.

"Why are you wearing your posh shirt?" asked Bodie, taking in the tailored glory of the lawn shirt, now open almost to Doyle's waist and clinging limply to the muscled planes of his back.

Doyle poured himself another cup of extra strong coffee, grimacing as he swallowed it down.

"And velvet trousers no less. Are you wearing anything under them? No wonder you're getting us talked about. I could make a fortune with you out on the streets. Prop you under a lamp post and you should be good for at least a quid."

"Go fuck a duck," said Doyle mildly. "This coffee's making me feel sick."

"The secret is to eat something. Here, I got you a bacon butty." Bodie tossed over the bag.

Doyle showed his first sign of life. "You're a mate. Oh, this is good. I'd forgotten what real food tastes like. And a sausage one, too. You're spoiling me."

"That was for me," said Bodie, philosophical because he realised only violence would part Doyle from his breakfast. "How the interrogation going then?" he added, with all the bonhomie of one who had enjoyed a full eight hours repose. He was, however, moving with something less than his usual ease, one side of his face having blossomed into some spectacular colours.

Doyle peered at him from beneath limp curls, like a tortoise from under its shell. "What?" His diction wasn't improve by the size of the moutful he was chewing.

"Krivas."

Doyle peered into the bag to check there was nothing left, then slowly sucked the grease from each finger tip. "If you're trying to be humerous, pack it in. Fuck all, that's what I've got. Forty sodding hours and nothing but a few lousy names."

Unable to sit still, he pushed himself up, prowling around the room. "There's something he's hiding. Something he's afraid of letting slip. I know it. Came close to it once but I'm so tired I couldn't... Damn it, Bodie, there's something. I know it!"

"Then find it, man," said Cowley from the doorway.

Bodie, his back to the door, pulled a face.

Doyle slumped where he stood propped against the wall. "Any suggestions how, sir?" he asked, smothering a yawn.

Looking at the seemingly boneless length of him, it occurred to Bodie that he'd be worth more than a quid of anyone's money.

"Modesty isn't in character, 4.5. This has been far from a waste of time. Details of a Turkish unit operating in London. Other useful names linked - to Mr Sinclair's detriment - not to mention confirmation of BOSS's activities in London on at least two occasions. Keep at it, man. There's more. Try concentrating on his activities in Angola."

Doyle gave him a look of silent hatred.

"Bodie," said Cowley sharply.

"In a minute," Bodie murmured vaguely, his mind on skeletons in cupboards.

Cowley gave him a sharp glance, then kept his thoughts to himself.

"Yeah, Angola's the place, Ray," said Bodie a minute or so later. A slow, joyous smile spread across his bruised face. "I've been listening to some of the tapes," he explained, when Doyle just glared at him. "Your only mistake was harping on about BOSS. You've got him by the short and curlies, mate. By the time you've finished with him, Krivas will be volunteering the colour of his grannie's eyes."

" _Bodie_!"

Two very different voices offered their own warning.

With a perceptible effort, Doyle pushed himself from the wall. "What am I looking for?"

"It's beautiful," said Bodie. "And I'd forgotten all about it until I heard him with you. It was him, I'd stake my minuscule pension on it."

"If I let you live that long," said Cowley acidly. "Get to the point."

"Sorry, sir. This was a job Krivas was on before I met up with him. There were all kinds of stories going the rounds. One told of a village wiped out at night. Nothing unusual about that, except this wasn't a settling of tribal scores but a unit of mercenaries - white mercenaries - after rebels. There weren't any of course. Just the usual casualties - women, the elderly, children." Bodie paused to help himself to Doyle's coffee. It was treble strength and syrupy with sugar.

"Strewth, that's disgusting!"

"It's been keeping me awake. Get on with it," said Doyle who, while more alert than he had been, was taking on the look of the Dormouse from Alice again. "What made this village different from any of the others?"

"Nothing, except that Nike Adadevoh came from there." Bodie sat back, an expectant look on his face.

"Adadevoh!" exclaimed Cowley, severity dispelled.

"Isn't he - ?"

"Head of the new junta that's just assumed power. Aye, he is."

"And our Enrico went and killed his granny. Nice," said Doyle, running a hand back through his hair, visibly vitalised. "Do we trade Krivas to them, sir?"

"Bodie, was there proof Krivas was involved?"

"Not enough for the English courts. To convince Adadevoh, no problem. Now I think about it, Wilson may have been with Krivas. I'd better have another chat with him."

"Only if Krivas doesn't crack. What do you suggest we do, 4.5?"

"I milk him for everything he's got on the basis we let them extradite him otherwise. He'll talk. He knows what's waiting for him if he doesn't. No wonder he coughed up the other info to divert me. Once we've sucked him dry we let Her Majesty look after him for the next twenty five years or so. There's no point giving him to Adadevoh, that junta won't last long. Besides, they don't have any oil or anything else we want."

"You're a cynic," said Cowley.

Doyle tilted his head. "Nothing I haven't learnt from you, sir. So?"

"What are you waiting for, man? Finish off Krivas, get some sleep and I'll see you Monday morning. You've done well," Cowley added, before he limped from the room.

His coffee mug still poised in one hand, Doyle wore a half-smile almost as irritating as the Giaconda's.

"Oy, Doyle. Wake up. Just because Cowley's given you an apple doesn't mean you can slope off yet, you know," said Bodie.

"No. I _knew_ there was something I'd missed. Lucky you listened in." Doyle knew luck would have had nothing to do with it.

"I just like to see a job well done. And you did a bloody good job on him, mate. I thought he was going to start salivating at one point."

"So did I. And I never thought I'd be grateful for that week of obbo I had to do with Lewis. I'd've run out of boring stories otherwise. Has the Old Man got you on anything?"

"Chasing records," said Bodie with remembered gloom. "Said he didn't want me frightening the public until my face has toned down. What's that smirk for?"

"I just wondered if you'd like to drop in on an old acquaintance. Catch up on old times."

"Krivas?"

"That's right. Settle the score once and for all. Let him know he wasn't quite good enough."

Aware of the generosity of the offer, Bodie stared at Doyle. Ray had worked hard on this one.

"It's the best way," Doyle added, serious now. "He's poison. Get him out your system. With the kind of sentence he'll get... He might be a hard man, there's always harder to be found in a high security wing. It'll be a very long twenty five years. We won't be doing him any favours."

"No?"

"No." Doyle gave him a thoughtful look. "I can see I'll have to arrange for you to have a guided tour of one of the high security wings. So, how about it? Then you can buy me dinner. You owe me."

Bodie got to his feet and gave a cautious stretch. "Maybe I do at that. Tell you what, you start him off, I'll finish him - and no, I won't lay a finger on him," he anticipated. "Cowley approves of teamwork."

"And you?"

"I'm coming round to the idea. Tell you what, I was due to see Carol tonight. How do you fancy giving Deb a ring, make a foursome of it. If you've got the energy?"

Doyle's grin was answer enough.

oOo

His brandy glass cupped between his hands, Bodie sighed, aware of the hostile glare aimed in his direction. As if it was his fault, he thought, aggrieved.

It should have been a lovely evening. They had plenty to celebrate and the perfect surroundings and good company in which to do it in. The food had been fantastic, the girls beautiful, themselves dressed to kill. Carol and Deb had even taken to each other, which helped no end. The only flaw to an otherwise highly successful evening had been Doyle, who had fallen asleep before the entree.

At first Deb had been indulgent and amused, incredulity arrived with the main course. By the dessert trolley she was angry enough to spit when Doyle fell asleep for the fourth time. She had finally walked out ten minutes ago, even her leave-taking failing to disturb Rip Van Doyle. Not that it was really his fault. The poor bugger was desperate for sleep.

"What are we supposed to do now?" demanded Carol coldly, rousing Bodie from contemplation of his sleeping partner.

“Eh? Sorry, sweetheart. He's just tired."

"I couldn't care less what's wrong with him. Do we have to spend what's left of Saturday night staring at him?"

Bodie gave her a look of surprise. Carol wasn't moody as a rule. Probably Deb's influence, he decided.

"Of course not, love. We'll drop Ray home and then we can go and - "

"Why can't he take himself home? You're not his keeper and I'm sick of the sight of him."

Bodie took a sip of his warmed brandy. If there was one thing he couldn't stand it was a bird who nagged. "Then don't look," he advised her placidly.

A few moments later he and Doyle had the table to themselves, apart from a large bill. Bodie saw to the latter, then sat watching a blissfully sleeping Ray Doyle, who had his head precariously propped on his hand.

"Things I do for Queen and country," Bodie muttered, as he set about waking his partner and steering him out to the car. It took a little longer to get Doyle into it.

By the time Bodie was in the driving seat Doyle was asleep again.

Bodie gave a faint smile and headed for his flat. If he had to babysit, he may as well do it in comfort and at least his refrigerator could guarantee a fry-up for breakfast. If he played his cards right Ray would probably feel guilty enough to cook it for him...

 

THE END


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